


Unwinding

by pippen2112



Series: RvB Smut Week 2k18 [4]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (explained in notes), Chorus Trilogy (Red vs. Blue), Cock Cages, Dubious Consent, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, RvB Smut Week, Season/Series 13, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 11:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16085582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: But before Wash can think about it any further, another vibration buzzes, this time lighter than expected, but it doesn’t stop.  Wash bites back a groan, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing through his nose.  Usually it only lasts a few seconds before clicking off.  Ten seconds.  He can handle ten seconds.Ten seconds passes, but the vibration doesn’t stop; instead, the intensity increases.Written for RvB Smut Week 2018's Kink Day





	Unwinding

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Zalia for dropping this idea on my head.
> 
> I marked this fic as dubious consent because even tough Wash agreed to wearing the cock cage while he and Locus were together with the Feds, he didn't agree to an extended lock-up or to having the remote vibrator turned sporadically. 
> 
> (And yes I'm well aware that if Wash were in this situation, someone would've found out about the cage while Wash was recovering from the fight at the end of season 12; I'm electing to handwave that for the sake of smut)

**Unwinding**

“Five laps!” Wash shouts, not so much as batting an eye behind his visor. 

The lieutenants all groan, jogging around the training field. Grif looks between the training field and Wash, probably baffled by the logic, but Wash knows it will work. He’s been in enough training teams to know. “Man!” Grif exclaims. “This is the best punishment ever!”

Wash shakes his head. “What did you need Kimball for, anyway? She’s in the middle of a meet—”

A quick vibrations jolt up from his groin, barely muffled by his briefs, underarmor, and codpiece. Wash tenses, his breath catching in his throat. _Not again._

“A meeting with Doyle,” he says quickly, scrambling to make up the pause. 

Not that Grif notices. “So, she’s in the war room?”

By the time Wash has even to sputter out a rebuttal, Grif is gone. For an admittedly lazy asshole, Grif gets around quick when he’s on a mission. But before Wash can think about it any further, another vibration buzzes, this time lighter than expected, but it doesn’t stop. Wash bites back a groan, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing through his nose. Usually it only lasts a few seconds before clicking off. Ten seconds. He can handle ten seconds.

Ten seconds passes, but the vibration doesn’t stop; instead, the intensity increases.

Biting his tongue, Wash grits out some excuse to the lieutenants and excuses himself from the training grounds. He heel-toes to the barracks, barely acknowledging anyone as he passes. It takes all his concentration not to fall against the nearest flat surface and squirm at the sensation. _Get to your bunk first. Get to your bunk._

The moment Wash gets his door closed and locked behind him, he collapses, scrambling for the clasps on his armor and stripping messily. In record time, he’s out of his underarmor, baring his sweat slick skin, cupping his hand around the plastic contraption locked around his dick. The infernal cage that is currently vibrating, a rhythmic pulse he can’t ignore.

_Fucking mercenary._

Wash bites his lip against a moan, curling his fingers around the plastic, feeling for the smallest gap between the cage and his flesh. It’s pointless, he knows, but he tries anyway. The vibration carries along his length, focused at his head. He braces his back against the wall as his groin pulses. “Fuck,” he whimpers, fisting both hands at his sides.

He’s an idiot. A colossal fucking idiot wasn’t thinking—correction, was thinking with his dick when the mercenary he fell into bed with suggested the idea.

 _“You wanna put me in a cock cage,” he asks, sitting up on Locus’s cot, his brow pinched, “to_ help _me unwind? That can’t be right.”_

_Locus lets out a low chuckle, more relaxed than Wash has heaver heard him. He runs a calloused hand up Wash’s spine teasingly. “It sounds counterintuitive. But it can be liberating.”_

_But Locus’s cheeks are faintly flushed and his pupils are blown wide. Wash tilts his head, turning to face him more. “It sounds like you’ve tried it before.”_

_“I have,” he answers simply. “And I think you might enjoy being at my mercy.”_

Wash shudders at the memory, along with the corresponding wave of arousal because just like Locus said, he did enjoy it. More than he expected. But that didn’t mean he planned on getting “rescued” two days after agreeing to give chastity a whirl. Or discovering that said mercenary was a genocidal monster and collaborating with his mouthy, fuck-faced ex-partner. To be fair, Wash’s whole life had been a mishmash of “didn’t plan for this”, but going three-months with a heavy plastic cage encasing his dick is absolutely at the top of that list.

He’d be able to handle all this just fine—even the sketchy hygiene—if it weren’t for the remote-activated vibrator attached to the cage. If the goddamn monster didn’t turn it on at odd intervals _just to fuck with him._

Suddenly, the vibration changes, the steady rhythm quickening to a sporadic pulse. Wash bucks his hips and bites back another moan. The walls of the barracks are painfully thin, and he really doesn’t need word getting around the UAC that he’s a screamer. Shit, the stimulation is getting to him. His mouth has gone dry, and his skin feels hypersensitive. But as titillating as the vibrations are, they’re not enough. Not nearly enough.

Still, precum beads on his dip, dripping through the slit in the cage and pooling in his underarmor, and his dick tries its hardest to swell up to full size. He bites his lip, his hips hitching forward despite himself. Fuck, he’d kill for a dildo even if it won’t do jack shit but rile him up more.

Before he can stop himself, Wash reaches for his nipples, pinching and flicking and swallowing keen after keen. He squeezes his eyes shut, his breath stuck in his throat. Unbidden, he recalls firm hands on his hips, warm thighs pressed against his own, rumbling groans bitten into his shoulders. His cock bobs hard enough to shake the cage. _Close, close, close._ He grits his teeth, chasing after phantom sensations. _Just a little more._

“Please,” he whispers, his voice thready and weak.

But as quickly as they came, the vibrations stop. His hips buck forward into nothing. He whines without meaning to, twisting his nipples and clenching his hole and praying that maybe, _maybe_ , it will be enough.

But arousal flutters in his groin, building and burning with nowhere to go.

Hanging his head, Wash shakes himself. Curses himself. _Fuck, I’d kill for a dildo. Or my old lockpicking manual._

_#_

Calls with Control are the fucking worst. Even when their plans go off without a hitch—like snatching up the Tartarus for instance—the old bastard still finds _something_ to whine about. If it weren’t for his helmet, Felix wouldn’t be able to feign interest. Instead, he switches his brain off and fiddles with the mini remote he found in Locus’s foot locker after the Reds and Blues exposed their con. Since then, Felix has taken to rolling it in his hands and clicking the button whenever he needs something to do with his hands. Normally, he’d whip out a knife and start flipping it sporadically, but he likes the weight and feel of the remote in his hands. 

As the call cuts off, Felix huffs and stretches out of his ready stance. “Well, _that_ was a spectacular waste of time. Guy needs to find a hobby instead of micromanaging an extermination, right Lo?”

But Locus doesn’t answer. Felix lolls his head around and finds Locus staring. Not at him, but at the remote. Weird. “What, did the stupidity of that call break your brain or something?”

“Where did you get that?”

Felix holds up the remote, his head angled curiously. “This? Found it in your foot lo— _hey!_ ”

Before Felix even finishes talking, Locus is on him. He forces Felix’s arm behind his back, squeezing his wrist until Felix drops the remote. Without a word, Locus snatches it up and stashes the remote in one of his armor compartments.

Gaping, Felix shakes the discomfort out of his arm. “The fuck was that about?”

Locus turns on heel and marches away into the base. Probably going to clean his guns or suck his own dick or whatever his partner does in his downtime. In his wake, Locus grumbles, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Even after the automatic door slides shut, Felix stares after him. _Fucking cryptic bastard,_ Felix thinks, shaking his head. _I should set him up with Wash once Chorus is in ruins and we’ve nabbed the Freelancers for Control. They’d make one fucked-up pair._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and concrit welcome! Come scream with me on Tumblr (birdsbeesandlemonadetrees.tumblr.com)


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